


Gold Medal

by howlingmoonrise (TheDarkStoryteller)



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Never Met, Blow Jobs, Cockblocking, M/M, Medal Kissing, Pettiness, Petty Rivals, Rival Sex, Rivalry, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-22
Packaged: 2018-09-19 03:10:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9415520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkStoryteller/pseuds/howlingmoonrise
Summary: Rivals AU where Otabek and Yuri try to out-petty each other and it might or might not end up escalating to an entirely different level. Alternatively: if Otabek can't be Yuri's friend, he's fine with literally anything else.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up getting longer and dirtier than expected lmfao. Hope y'all enjoy this, don't hesitate in letting me know your thoughts on this! I'm also on tumblr under [howlingmoonrise](http://howlingmoonrise.tumblr.com).
> 
> This does not follow canon events or ages.
> 
> \--

 Yakov is going to kill him.

Not that Yuri cares much about Yakov's anger, but the man has once more brought his frankly terrifying wife, and _that_ is one person Yuri would rather not cross. So he runs for the elevator, antsily shaking his leg until the door finally, _finally_ opens - he can hear angels sing, he swears - and promptly dives inside.

Only for the doors to take an eternity to close.

Yuri is three seconds away from screaming in frustration.

There's another male making his way to the elevator, a fellow competitor - though Yuri hasn't paid much attention to him before - and he's even kind of handsome. In, you know, a cool, stoic kind of way that is _totally not his type, nope_. So he doesn't feel the slightest hint of guilt when he jabs the 'close doors' button right in the man's face in an attempt to make the doors go faster.

_Sorry, cool stranger. See you on the other side._

The man slips inside at the last second.

The doors, sensing a body in their vicinity, slide back open.

 _Are you fucking kidding me?_ , Yuri wants to yell, and he _swears_ he's about to pummel his fellow competitor into oblivion. He jabs his finger on the button again with more force than strictly necessary, and whirls around to face that absolute _asshole-_

Who is staring right back at him. Huh.

The doors slide closed in a painfully slow manner.

"If I wasn't in such a hurry I'd kick your fucking ass," Yuri promises, seething. "You wouldn't even be able to go on ice from how sore I'd make you."

The corners of the stranger's mouth quirk up.

"Can't wait," he says, and without tearing his gaze away from Yuri's he reaches out and presses. Every. Single. Floor. _Button_. On the fucking elevator.

Yuri might or might not have a crush.

 

***

 

Otabek Altin.

Otabek Altin is his name, and Yuri has descended into a half-feverish obsession as he stalks him across his almost non-existent media presence, spite-liking every post of his he comes across, few of them as there might be.

He doesn't even consider how this may come across to other people until Mila is teasing him about it.

"Our little Yurio is all grown up," she coos while pulling a stupid kissy face at him. "When are you going to introduce your boyfriend to us?"

He's not red. He's not blushing. He does his best to kick her in the face, an effort which she flawlessly evades. "Not. My. Boyfriend," he hisses at her. "I hate that asshole."

She cackles, dancing away from him. "That's definitely not what it looks like."

And it's not, damnit. Yuri is all too aware of that, but when did that ever stop him?

He returns to spite-liking with a vengeance.

 

***

 

The next time he sees him, it's at another competition, and he's diving to the side to hide behind a vending machine before he realizes what he's doing.

"Fuck," Yuri mutters to himself, but now that he's doing it he's got to _commit_. So he pretends to have dropped something, and leans against the side of the vending machine while pretending to scroll through Instagram and hoping they don't see him.

For once, luck is on his side.

"Yeah," Otabek is saying. "Warm-ups should start soon so let me just buy a drink and I'll get going, you go on ahead."

By casual, pure chance, Yuri lets his eyes drift to the side. The machine is pretty empty, which isn't surprising considering the amount of hungry athletes and coaches going around - and while the junk food remains relatively untouched, the rest isn't. _And_ there's a curious lack of any drinks in there at all, minus one sole bottle of water.

Yuri feels a wicked grin curve along the sides of his face.

Warm-ups _are_ about to start, and Otabek drew one of the first spots for the competition.

Casually, while his rival skater finishes his conversation, Yuri slides to the front of the vending machine, taking out the necessary coins out of the pocket of his jacket. Then, he waits.

He makes sure to catch Otabek's eye as he feeds the coins into the machine, one by one, and then punches in the code for the water bottle. Yuri even makes sure to raise an eyebrow while he does it, just because it looks _cool_ and not at all because he's been practising that expression in the mirror for this occasion exactly.

"Competitions sure make one thirsty, huh?" he asks as casually as he can manage, and takes a sip from it. "Good luck with your program."

" _Davai_ ," Otabek says in return, brows furrowing as if he can't understand why Yuri is being nice after their previous encounter.

He doesn't stay to watch Otabek's reaction at seeing that was the last water bottle. But his dark expression as they cross ways in the rink more than makes up for it, and Yuri makes the best of it by shooting him the most callous thumbs-up he can manage.

 

***

 

Okay, so he might have overshot that one.

It's kind of ridiculous how big his scowl gets before Lilia snaps at him and tells him to suck it up. But Otabek managed to bypass his score by a total of _seven points_ , and the asshole is going to be smug forever about this unless Yuri manages to kick his shapely, muscular ass across the ice during his short program in less than a day's time. Which he can do. Totally. Without a problem.

 _If only the damned guy wasn't so fucking attractive that it makes Yuri want to melt,_ and as the metaphorical cherry on top of delicious asshole skater sundae, he's also _talented_. As if it wasn't bad enough. As if _JJ_ 's entire existence wasn't bad enough. What is it with guys with undercuts and being dicks, honestly? Yuri would really like to know, because he doesn't have the patience for this kind of bullshit - but at least Otabek is an asshole in the kind of way Yuri is and not in the obnoxious, JJ-style kind of way.

One JJ is, quite frankly, enough. If there's a divinity out there responsible for him, Yuri would like to punch it in the face, or at the very least spew out some choice words about it.

"Hey, asshole," Yuri sneers as he makes his way to the other man. And he generally doesn't have much of a problem with his size - in fact, he once dreaded the thought of growing up too much, until he realized he _was_ staying short no matter how many years passed - but the half-inch Otabek has on him is enough to fuel his rage. "Try not to get too comfortable on the first place seat. You're just warming it up for me."

"Yuri," he greets, a half-smile twisting at the corner of his attractive mouth, and Yuri _seethes_ at the sight of it. "Hopefully today's competition isn't making you as thirsty. We'd all hate it if you had to run off halfway through and left someone else to take the silver."

"Yeah, yeah." Before he can think twice about it, he's digging a hand into Otabek's jacket, the blue and gold fabric wrinkling under his fist as he pulls him closer. The proximity is distracting, Otabek's hot breaths puffing against his lips, and he has to take a moment to remember what he was going to say. "Loser has to kiss the other's medal, you fuck."

"Yeah?" And _fuck_ if Yuri isn't a bit lost at the sound of his rough drawl, at the sight of the dark grin pulling at Otabek's mouth in a way he's never seen before in the other skater's expression. "Can't wait to see you below me, then."

And with these words, he walks away, leaving Yuri to stare after him with a mouth that goes suddenly dry.

Fuck, it's hot, and _fuck_ , Yuri kind of almost wants to lose just to see it again. _Almost_. As much as he would find it interesting to see how it would go- Well, having Otabek Altin below him would surely prove to be just as interesting.

 

***

 

" _Davai,_ " Otabek smirks at him as Yuri passes the gate, blades touching the ice.

Yuri shoots him a stony look as he offers him a thumbs-up, an expression that deeply contrasts with the turmoil building in his bones - and if his body trembles with the thought of what's to come, he doesn't let it show.

When he's done - when his blood fights to stop boiling, when his muscles demand his collapse on the freezing calm of the ice below, when there's rivulets of sweat descending across his forehead and he has no strength left to wipe it off - he makes his way out, Yakov ushering him towards the Kiss & Cry. He takes a moment though, between a large gulp of water and the next, to turn towards where Otabek is undressing his team jacket and taking off his ice guards.

Yakov is as surprised as anyone else when Yuri cups his hands around his mouth and shouts a cynical " _Davai!"_ , but Yuri suspects no one actually took it for what it was. Even Lilia looks bewildered at this show of odd sportsmanship; he decides if it's for the best if no one knows exactly what's going between the two of them. Mostly, because he's not too sure himself.

Otabek makes the same thumbs-up gesture as before in his direction, expression loaded with meaning. Apparently, it's their _thing_ now.

Yuri isn't too sure on how he should feel about it.

 

***

 

And... well. Yuri tells himself to _get a fucking grip_ , because the rest of the competition whizzes by in a blur, fast enough that his brain can hardly keep up with the events that come after.

They manage to remain civil for long enough: long enough to receive the scores, long enough to last until after the medals have been placed around their chests, long enough for both of them to give each other side-glances and measure up their reactions. Each breath is slow and measured, filled with anticipation and _something else_ , the kind of thing they can't show when the eyes of thousands of people are on them.

None of them will cause a spectacle on the podium, on camera, even though each rustle of fabric and rub of their bodies against each other during celebratory photos makes it hard not to. After that, though, it's just a matter of time.

Then, somehow, they manage to find each other on the hotel - no reporters around, no coaches to scold them for their behaviour, no other skaters to watch and photograph - and Yuri doesn't have the time to say a single word before he's being pushed to the wall.

"Well?" Otabek asks, eyes as half-hooded and dark as they had been before, and it twists Yuri's stomach in a way that shouldn't feel pleasant. "Where is it?"

This is where Yuri makes a choice, he knows. There's time here to back off, to tell him he didn't mean any of it, to give any kind of shitty excuse that will delay this indeterminately. Because Yuri has a feeling that this isn't simply a show of humbleness from the part of the loser, no - this is the kind of thing that will turn into something messier very quickly if he doesn't stop this _now_.

He doesn't do any of that.

Instead, he thrusts his chest forward against the other man's, feeling it brush against the fabric of his rival's shirt and holding back a shiver at the hot muscle he can feel underneath, and pulls the snarkiest expression he can muster. "I'm sure you can find it yourself if you want it so much."

" _Fine_ ," Otabek snarls - _snarls_ , and fuck, it's so good to be the one in control of his emotions for once - and then his hands are unzipping Yuri's Russian team jacket, diving beneath his shirt with rough hands and rougher fingers that have Yuri gasping and resisting an involuntary thrust of his hips when they brush one of his nipples.

Otabek fishes the medal from under his shirt, upper lip curled in a way that shouldn't make Yuri feel the way he does at the sight of it. "I bet you love it," he says, bringing the medal between them, fingers caressing the border of it in a borderline suggestive motion. "I bet you _dreamt_ of it, having me bending to kiss your medal ever since that day on the elevator, and you didn't even know who I was."

"I know who you are," Yuri rasps out, watching as Otabek lowers his head and drags his tongue experimentally across the metal. He barely stops a shudder from making it known just how much he's actually enjoying this. "I know you. Otabek Altin. Kazakhstan. Dark horse of competitions."

Otabek huffs out a laugh, clouding the medal's surface with his breath. Really, it's unfair how alluring this man is when he can't even manage a smile that isn't driven by smugness, and Yuri has a feeling that is _exactly_ why he's as attracted to him as he is. "You should know better," he teases, giving him a look from under him that might or might not make Yuri a bit breathless. "We've met before."

"We-" Yuri has to swallow once, twice, as Otabek leans back down and traces his tongue around the edges of the golden metal before his lips close around the tip in a mocking half-kiss, half-suck that leaves Yuri feeling lightheaded. "We have?"

Otabek's lips drag against the medal as he raises his head to look at Yuri again. His tongue plays with the corners of his mouth; his lips are already shiny with spit, a bit reddened by kissing the trophy around Yuri's neck. Yuri wants those lips on him. "Am I that forgettable? We trained together in one of Yakov's camps several years ago."

Yuri doesn't think Otabek is forgettable at all. Yuri doesn't think much, not beyond the words _fuck_ , and _me_ , and _please_ , and he's making an effort at keeping his legs locked and himself upright when Otabek's mouth traces the lines of the ribbon until he reaches his neck.

"What are you doing?" Yuri whispers, but it's neither a question nor a protest. Otabek hums out a laugh.

"I'm just being thorough," he says mockingly, nose dragging behind Yuri's ear. His breath, hot and steamy, makes Yuri exhale a shaky whimper that he doesn't even bother to cover up. "Wouldn't want you to call me out and say I didn't complete the terms of our bet, now do I?"

 _I wouldn't mind doing just that_ , Yuri thinks feverishly, leaning back his head against the cool wall of the hotel corridor. Otabek follows the motion, nosing at his neck and letting his lips trail from fabric to skin with pleasant nips. Somehow, Yuri finds his hands catching at Otabek's waist, digging his fingers into it until the other man is forced to come closer, _closer_. They both moan when their hips meet each other, stop for a moment as if to make sure no one heard them before Otabek bites harder.

Yuri buries his teeth into his bottom lip in an effort not to make any sound. "Don't you fucking dare leave any marks, you fuck."

"Oh?" Otabek says in return, and while Yuri is pleasantly surprised at hearing a slight catch in his breath that lets him know he's not the only one affected, the sheer smugness on it overwhelms it by far. "I'll make sure to bite extra hard then. Just above the neckline of your suit. Let the world know a lowly silver medallist got you like this - against a wall, unresisting, making _all sorts of noises_ for him."

"I'm not making any _noises-_ " Yuri starts to say, just in time for Otabek to suck on a spot of his throat. A muffled whine threatens to escape his lips, and Yuri slams his head back to stop the urge from winning out. _Fuck_ , he thinks dizzily. _Fuck_.

He can hear Otabek chuckling - can _feel it_ , dark and low against his ear. "Then make sure to keep it that way." His teeth mark a path to the hollow of his throat, and Yuri feels the rigidness inhabiting both their pants. It takes a show of willpower not to buck his hips against Otabek's, to rub against him and adjust their lengths so they fit better. "Unless you're too needy to keep it quiet."

"Fuck off," Yuri curses, but his lack of breath makes the words lose their sting. "You're not enough to make me be loud."

Otabek's eyes positively _gleam_. "Want to bet on that, too?"

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ , is all Yuri can seem to think, and he manages to wet his lips in an effort at finding his voice. "You're on."

That seems to be the answer Otabek was hoping for, because Yuri is blessed by a dazzling, rare smile from the other skater for a brief moment before he sinks his teeth into the bone of his clavicle again. And _fuck_ , Yuri hadn't known he was into this kind of thing, but the desperate bucking of his hips against the other man doesn't lie. His body doesn't lie, and Yuri feels his cheeks burning with both embarrassment and arousal as Otabek lets his hands and mouth travel down his body.

His breath is humid and hot against the thin fabric of his shirt, and when Otabek laps at the fabric above his nipple and lets his teeth graze it takes all Yuri has not to whine. He buries his hands on Otabek's hair instead, thick and dark, and tugs maybe a little too hard.

Otabek doesn't seem to mind, seeing as his tongue becomes a lot more rougher against him. He might have even let out a small groan, but Yuri's ears are too focused on the pumping of his own blood to be sure.

He wouldn't count on it. Otabek Altin seems like the kind of guy to have remarkable self-control, and Yuri nearly lets out a groan of his own at the thought of what that might mean for him.

Otabek seems very happy to disregard it and continue his journey down, in any case.

Yuri tries to concentrate on his breathing when the other skater reaches the denim of his pants. He can't muffle his whimper when he feels the rasp of his tongue against the roughness of the denim, against the leaking hardness beneath it that Yuri is praying won't leak too much too soon. Otabek nuzzles his nose against it, dragging it along the length before he lets his eyes meet Yuri's.

They look smug.

 _Fuck_.

"You sure you can handle this?" he teases. Yuri grasps his hair tighter, pulls him closer to the heated bulge in his jeans, and feels more than hears the other man's dark laughter against his dick. "So eager."

"Thought you said you wanted to make me be loud," Yuri breathes at him. "You better make good on that promise."

Neither of them point out that it hadn't been a promise. Neither of them want to break this light banter, this underlying sense of competition that relies more on showing rather than telling. Yuri thinks they're beyond all that as Otabek unbuckles his pants and belt, and then the cold air of the hallway is hitting his exposed dick when he pulls both jeans and boxers down in a single motion.

"F-fuck," Yuri lets out, letting his eyes drift towards the ceiling again as Otabek's gaze burns into him. "We really shouldn't be doing this here."

"If you keep quiet," Otabek says, and presses a close-mouthed kiss to the side of his shaft. "Then we should have nothing to worry about."

"You're not the one half-naked here," Yuri argues half-heartedly, but the next protest dies in his mouth when he feels Otabek's tongue dragging up, up, _up_ , and he swears he's seeing stars. "Fuck, _fuck-_ keep doing that."

"Thought I told you to keep quiet," Otabek replies amusedly, lips brushing the head of his dick. Yuri pulls at his hair in response, and the groan from the other man is unmistakeable as he leans forward to take Yuri's dick in his mouth. "Keep your eyes on me."

There's a mental mantra of _don't come yet, don't come yet, don't come yet, you got to hold on for a little longer or you'll never live this down_ going around Yuri's head as he makes a titanic effort to draw the back of his head away from the wall it'd been leaning on. Then he really, _really_ wishes he hadn't, because his mantra goes pretty much flying out of his head at the sight of Otabek with his dick in his mouth, eyes dark and fixed on him as he slides his mouth along the length, and Yuri feels his toes curl.

He's gonna have a bloody mouth soon, he's sure of it, from how hard he's sucking on his lip to stop himself from making all sorts of embarrassing noises for the other man to hear. There's a smirk on Otabek's face when he lets Yuri's dick slide out with a filthy noise - like he's been wanting this for a long time, like there's nothing he wants more than to have Yuri turned to putty under his hands and mouth - and then he's rising and _fuck his mouth is so close and_ \--

He offers two fingers for Yuri to suck on, and he obediently follows his silent request.

 _This is not a competition_ , he tells himself as he tastes the other man's skin, salty and slightly damp from sweat, and curls his own tongue around it. _This is a competition_ , he argues back when Otabek's gaze is unrelenting as Yuri sucks and sucks and _sucks_ on his fingers like it's the real thing, and then he lets drool gather on his tongue as he withdraws Otabek's fingers.

"That enough?" he asks breathlessly, and Otabek nods.

There's no more words exchanged as he makes his way down again, as the matching wet redness of his lips and Yuri's dick meet again, as he fondles his balls with rough hands that make Yuri's breath come out in short gasps. Yuri is learning a lot about himself today, he thinks as Otabek lightly drags his nails around the lines of his shaft and his hips buck uncontrollably. _A lot_ , he thinks once more when Otabek's slick fingers find his hole, tracing it slightly before a finger ventures inside.

Yuri can't stop the very loud whine that results from it; Otabek looks extremely satisfied.

"Fuck you," Yuri says, gasping with an open mouth. He won't look away from Otabek _, he refuses to_ , there's no way he's going to give up on such a seemingly small challenge from this ridiculously attractive man- But _fuck_ , saliva is nowhere near good enough lubricant and his fingers are rough, so rough, and it _stings_ but Yuri _wants_ it just like that - a little too hard, a little too rough, a little bit of pain and competitiveness and soreness with his pleasure, and he finds himself throwing back his head painfully against the wall and grinding down on Otabek's fingers before he can even think of telling himself to stop.

But there's the sound of the elevator coming up, and Yuri and Otabek share a quick wide-eyed gaze before darting up and attempting to fix both their clothes as fast as they can.

By the time the doors slide open his ass feels empty, and his dick is sore and pressing painfully against the front of his pants and pulled-down jacket, and he's more than ready to bite off the head of whoever it is that is coming off on their floor.

It's Yakov.

Of fucking _course_ it's Yakov.

The coach sends them both a suspicious look, eyes shifting from one to the other. "What are you both doing here?"

"None of your business," Yuri barks out, just as Otabek says, "Only complimenting him on his medal, sir."

Right. The medal. The golden medal, the one around the same neck Otabek had been biting at not very long ago, the one that had lead to all kinds of... interesting events. Yuri makes a mental note to get himself another one, not that that wasn't in the plan already.

"I see," Yakov says, and furrows his eyebrow at them. "You should both go and rest. Early flight in the morning for us, at least."

"Yes, sir. I'll be seeing you, Plisetsky." Otabek is walking away before Yuri can send him anything more than a dizzy look, and Yakov blocks his way before he can see where the other skater's room is.

"Go to sleep," Yakov says gruffly. "Or Lilia will kill both of us if you don't wake up in time."

" _Fine_ ," Yuri spits out. No point in sticking around when he can't even find Otabek anymore, so he makes a point of slamming the door behind him when he walks into the room. Then, as soon as the door is locked behind him, he shoves his hand down his pants and strokes himself roughly.

He thinks of Otabek, and stains his hands white.

 

***

 

They settle into an odd sort of relationship after that.

It takes another competition, another half-joking bet about kissing the other's golden medal, a deliberate-yet-subtle rub of Yuri's ass against Otabek's dick while he pretends that the hallway is too crowded to give it anymore space between them, and they settle into something that almost resembles a routine.

Viktor calls them best friends.

Yuri isn't so sure.

They snark at other people together, sure. And they defend the other's skating to whoever might hear as long as the other isn't in the room (but then again, that might just be Yuri). And they've taken to sitting together at competitions, and even going out to eat together between biting remarks and sarcastic comments, not to mention the less-than-appropriate encounters that keep happening after events or if the other happens to come a little too close. _But_ they badmouth each other when they're both in the room, and the challenges and teases and barbs never stop coming - and neither do the dark looks, nor the half-hearted tug at each other's medals.

Fact is, there's _affection_ there. Fondness. Mushy stuff that has no place in rivalries, no matter how much Yuri might or might not enjoy his moments in Otabek's presence and the sharp wit and resting bitch face of the other man. Yuri doesn't want to delve into anything deeper than that when it comes to his own mind, not until off-season comes along and he has time to think, though he knows he's barely touching the surface.

He comes out of his short program feeling as winded as always, and his eyes meet Otabek's on the way out. _Loser kisses the winner's medal_ , he mouths at him, sending the half-lidded look Otabek seems to appreciate so much halfway to the Kiss & Cry.

Yuri has to hold back a smile at the thumbs-up he receives in return.


End file.
